Chapter Text
Memory is not very useful when you’ve lived as long as I have. Maybe it was determination that drove me to remember every bit of my childhood. You know, before the wings, before the acid, before all this fucked-up shit.
Mom… I missed how she used to move my hair out of my face when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. She always smelled like peonies.
Dad… sometimes all I could remember was his laughter
Ha, how pathetic is that?
When I was five, Dad’s voice used to fill the room when he laughed. Even when things were bad, he looked… warm. Like someone you were supposed to trust. But that’s all in the past now.
A child's world is only as strong as the people holding it.
By six the laughter stopped, replaced by shouting matches. I never knew what it was about; I could only catch a few phrases that were just cursing. It could happen anywhere: dinner, breakfast, bedtime, hell, even in public.
At night the shouting bled through the door. They never bothered to whisper.
People pitied me, just… not enough to intervene.
No one to hold me, not a sister, not a brother, not even a grandma. I sat alone holding my dirty bunny that my dad had given me on my second birthday. It looked huge in my small hands back then, like everything in the world was bigger than me. My curls always fell into my eyes when I looked down at it. It had been so worn out over time; the eyes were gone, the stuffing completely disappeared, and rips were everywhere.
Mom told me to throw it away, but I was kind of a hoarder then; I couldn't even think of parting with it. I'm glad I didn't; it was the only comfort I had at the time.
Eventually the shouting turned into silence. Papers signed at the kitchen table. Packed boxes. Half-empty rooms.
The divorce wasn't exactly clean; it was slow, long overdue. When the divorce became finalized, three days later Mom killed herself.
Mom… I still miss her. Her ash-blonde hair used to stand out even in crowds.
Her suicide was a door slammed shut in my face. Now left in the custody of someone who hadn't fought for me during the split, someone who only saw me as a debt to pay, a failed contract.
Being kept wasn't the same as being wanted.
The legal fees from the divorce and funeral drained my father’s bank account until we ended up sleeping in an alley nearby.
Dad never hit me. Not once.
Back then I thought that meant something.
The alleyway was cold, dark, and wet, but I wasn't focused on that; no, I was more focused on my father, who sat beside me, his long hair falling loose around his face, messy like he didn’t have time to care anymore. He smelled faintly like dust and sweat from the construction site.
He worked on a construction site: low pay, but it was something. Soon even that job turned against him. The manager said he’d been pulling too many hours and needed time off.
My father, of course, cussed him out: “Bullshit, you're not worried about me; you're worried about your own fucking money you—" The guy didn't fire him, but he gave him 2 weeks off, no pay, to "calm down."
I couldn't help it; I leaned my head against his shoulder, a sad attempt at comfort. For once, he didn't push me away. I soaked up the warmth of his arm; I was colder than he was. My father flinched at the temperature drop; he finally looked down at my shivering frame. For a second, guilt flickered across his face. He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer; I could finally feel his heartbeat. It was fast.
“I’m sorry… I'm so, so sorry, Abel."
Abel… my real name. The one I never told anyone.
He cried into my hair softly; his hands—no, his whole body was shaking. He kept apologizing and crying, and I just sat there clinging to him, too young to understand why.
I remember thinking maybe things would finally get better.
.
.
.
Things didn’t get better.
My father stopped looking at me after that night. Days blurred together beneath the tarp while empty bottles piled beside the crates. Sometimes he disappeared for hours and came back smelling like smoke and cheap liquor.
Tonight was no exception: a rainy night. Rain dripped through the tarp holding this “home” together. The drops tapped against the crates. Seeing it now, the crates were just a desperate attempt to make everything feel normal. My father didn't sigh tonight though; instead, he laughed at my expense.
He gripped a rusted revolver, surrounded by men who had nothing but a few crumpled bills. "He’s got the luck of the devil, I tell ya," my father slurred, pulling me forward by the collar of my oversized, frayed coat.
I didn't struggle. I should have.
Instead, I leaned into his side. "Dad? Can we just go to sleep now?" I whispered, my voice probably drowned out by the men laughing.
"Shut it, Abel. You want to eat tomorrow?” I slowly nodded. “Then sit still." My father spun the cylinder; I didn't know how many bullets there were. The click ripped me from my thoughts. It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard. He pressed the cold muzzle to my forehead.
The men laughed, leaning in. "A hundred says the kid flinches," one hissed.
I looked up at him through watering eyes, my heart beating in my throat. I tried to stay perfectly still, just like he wanted me to. If I survived, I could eat; if I survived, Dad would smile, I thought over and over.
The hammer dropped on an empty chamber.
Click.
How long has it been? Seconds? Minutes since I last opened my eyes? I don’t know, but when I finally opened them, cash littered the ground, the revolver already tucked back into my father’s waistband.
"See?" My father crowed, scooping the cash from the ground. "Told ya. A survivor, this one.”